With You
by bana05
Summary: The last time Michonne had been *with* someone, she'd been alone. This time, the rules have certainly changed.
1. With You

Title: With You  
Author: bana05  
Rating: T+  
Characters/Pairings: Richonne  
Spoilers: Up to 06x12  
Disclaimer: _The Walking Dead_ ain't mine.  
Summary: The last time Michonne had been _with_ someone, she'd been alone. This time, the rules have certainly changed.  
Author's notes: Joke's on me! I've gone a grip without writing fic, and now here's one for a show I've primarily watched through gifs and character tags. Lulz! Nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy and please forgive errors!

* * *

She heard the crunch of his footsteps upon the asphalt behind her, but she didn't stop her forward march to nowhere. She didn't want to talk to Rick, not now, not about what he wanted to discuss, because _now_ was simply not the time.

"Michonne."

She ignored her name, the steel and determination in the two syllables he clipped out, far different from the honey and dew he'd employed in the early-morning darkness.

 _Fucking Jesus._

She and Rick had promised each other they would talk after they'd gotten their first round out of the way, a round that had lasted all of five minutes because things had been at the surface for far too long for her (them?) and he'd come as soon as she'd sunk down on his cock. She'd taken a little longer to go over, too stubborn to capitulate to the maelstrom of emotions inside of her. Rick had just lain there, still panting from the power of his release, but he'd helped her along. A rough palm sliding up her thigh, a callused thumb upon her nub, his hooded eyes refusing to let her look away from him and what was weaving between them.

"Now," he'd demanded, his voice hoarse from his own cathartic groan.

She'd sighed and shuddered and hummed, her body falling upon him in time with the adagio arpeggio of her pleasure. Her ass still tingled from his congratulatory squeeze, his soothing caress.

"Really gonna do this _now_?"

 _Fuck a Rick with her katana._

She stopped at the incredulity in his tone, glowering at the empty road ahead while adjusting the rifle in her hold. They were on mission, one that _he'd_ advocated for with her support, and they needed to remain focused. They were looking for stragglers, for walkers, for Saviors, for anything that would put this very suspect plan to murder an entire compound on its ass before they could even implement it. Dead leaves skittered along the road's double yellow line, and one settled at her feet. It fluttered against her right boot's toe before continuing on its way. She followed its progress with her eyes, her familiar scowl grooved into her face, and she wondered what the hell was wrong with her she felt slightly jealous of the thing.

The crunching behind her stopped, but she could feel Rick's presence at her back, overwhelming, overpowering. Awareness slithered down her spine and she bent her head in respect of it. He hadn't reached out and touched her; hadn't, really, since they'd returned to Alexandria yesterday afternoon, and they both knew that was on her.

"I thought…" Rick paused and let out a breath, then stepped closer so he was pressed directly against her back. "I thought we were good?"

Doubt didn't sound right coming from his mouth, especially not where she was concerned. She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes tight against that and the panic whirring inside of her. She couldn't speak right now. Her throat was too thick, and he'd hear her anxiety. Bad enough he could read her like a damn Dr. Seuss book; worse he'd insist on fixing whatever was bothering her; catastrophic that her freak-out had to happen on the cusp of a massacre instead of during a breakfast of waffles with a watchful, bemused Carl and a happily syrupy Judith. Except now, e _veryone_ knew her business (thank you, _Jesus_ ) and Rick was rolling right along like the world hadn't shifted on its axis yet again. And she had been, too, until she'd seen Maggie and Glenn's ultrasound, and she'd realized the rules had changed yet again. This wasn't some ordinary mission. This wasn't some run for more supplies or a walker herd they needed to dispatch. Going on the offensive like this, no matter how necessary, meant courting a world of hurt and trouble. And going courting without all of the intangibles accounted for almost guaranteed some fuckery would go down.

Granted, Michonne never _not_ thought of all the contingencies she could, but generally she didn't have time to dwell on "what ifs?" because the battle usually came to them, not the other way around. And while she'd always had something to lose from the moment she'd met Andrea, then joined Rick and his group, the devastation of that loss was something she'd been able to calculate and mitigate, at least theoretically. Now, though…she shuddered just remembering the taste she'd gotten the night Carl had been shot and Rick had gone on his suicide mission that, thankfully, hadn't panned out. She'd chosen to stay with Carl, to help Denise stabilize him enough so she could help his father, but her heart had vacillated between her throat and her feet the entire time. She'd retched after the battle had ended, gripping the commode so tightly she thought she'd crack the porcelain, but she'd settled herself enough to tend to Baby Judith and stand sentry just in case Rick had needed her.

Thankfully, everything had turned all right in the end, less Carl's right eye. They'd been lucky; her grandmother would've called it _blessed_ once upon a time, but one couldn't enjoy a blessing without some tribulation to go with it. She wasn't Job, though. She had a limit to the calamities she could bear.

"Michonne, I need you to talk to me. You stalkin' away from me makes me nervous. You agreed to the plan, gave me your nod before we loaded up the cars. If somethin's pricklin' you now, you gotta tell me. Our family's lives are at stake."

She bent her head forward, bringing a trembling hand to the bridge of her nose. _Damn it!_ Telling Rick not to be concerned for her would be as futile as telling the sun not to rise in the east. She had to put on her Big Girl britches and accede to his request, because his focus on her was drawing it away from where it needed to be: annihilation of the Saviors and getting them all out of this alive and whole.

Michonne laid the rifle down on the road carefully and took a deep breath. Her eyes stung when his hands immediately settled on her shoulders. She didn't lean into him but she didn't pull away, and Rick buried his nose into her locs at the back of her head.

"We'll win," he said. "You said so yourself, remember?"

She nodded. "There's such a thing as Pyrrhic victories, Rick." She licked her lips and turned her head so she could see him out of the corner of her eye. "What if a win means…?"

"We all go home with a deal that will guarantee food for us for months?" Rick suggested, squeezing her shoulders. "That's why we're here, ain't it?"

"What if we all don't go home?" Michonne whispered. "I know that's always a risk, but we didn't ever go asking for fights. The Governor had, and look what happened to him."

"You put a blade through his chest," Rick said dryly. "I got a first-row seat to that and everything."

She turned fully and frowned at him. "He sliced Hershel's neck open with _my_ sword, then he shot tanks at our home. Confidence can be a slippery slope into hubris, Rick. What if this is some big-ass trap that we walked right into? Gregory gets us to kill each other off and—?"

Rick cupped her face in his hands. They were warm, large, strong, and very gentle upon her. He held her as if she were precious, which made her eyes sting even more, and she licked her lips again. It helped distract her from the urge to cry.

"You're not dyin' today, Michonne."

She squinted at him. "You can't guarantee that."

"The fuck I can't. You're not dying."

"And I suppose you aren't dying, either?"

Rick shook his head and kissed her forehead. "I know I can be _painfully_ slow on the uptake at times, but the universe owes me a solid."

"You have a solid," Michonne reminded him sharply. "Carl, alive. Judith, alive. You have your family."

He pulled back and arched an eyebrow at her. "And why are you talkin' as if you ain't an integral part of that?"

She pursed her lips, blinking rapidly because she could feel that emotional squall starting to brew again. They were _all_ integral to his family's survival. If it hadn't been for Tyreese and Carol, Judy wouldn't even be with them now. They all saved each other; that was the only way they could win, after all. Yet saving sometimes meant sacrifice, and Rick wasn't above putting hierarchies in place beyond Judith or Carl. She couldn't let him _not_ let her do what she might need to do for them, for _him_ —

Rick scoffed and stepped away from her, turning his back to her and placing his fists on cocked hips. His shoulders hunched over, visibly rising and falling as he tried to marshal himself. Michonne let him do this, knowing she'd thrown him with her lack of an answer and her sudden dread. She would've been fine if he hadn't followed her. She would've compartmentalized this and been ready to go, resolving something within herself so she could get the job done. But they'd moved up a level, and the one below had fallen away. There was no going back, which was why this way forward really, in truth, terrified her.

"That day, months ago, when I'd confessed to you about taking the guns, do you remember what you said to me?" Rick asked, his voice low and precisely controlled.

Michonne inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "I said I was with you."

"Yes, you did," Rick said. He faced her now, his hands still on his hips, his expression firm and fierce. "That goes both ways, you know. I'm with you, too, and I'm a clingy son of a bitch."

Now she did smile, and a few tears slipped from her eyes. "Rick."

He shuffled his boot along a yellow line and nodded at the road. "I know I can be stubborn, tyrannical, merciless when it comes to my family. My boy and my baby girl—ain't nothin' on this earth I wouldn't do for 'em. You saw," he said gruffly, looking at her through his lashes.

Michonne nodded, brushing away the tears. The Claimers. Terminus. Jessie. Carl and Judith were paramount to all else, which was why Michonne needed to say what she was about to say.

"They will always be the right choice," she said quietly, gripping the strap of her katana that lay across her chest. "I guarantee it. They will _always_ be the right choice."

He nodded as well, continuously, as if he were one of those bobble head dolls that had been popular back in the day. "That's why we're doing this, and that's why we're not dying today, because I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure we get back home to our family. Now, I gave you your space last night because I could sense you needed it. A lot of changes were happening at once, and you needed to process _everything_. But I didn't give you that space for you to figure out a scenario where I'd be okay with you not being here. There's _no_ scenario where that could happen."

Michonne rolled her eyes, aware he was aware he was being dead serious, yet illogical, and being quite at peace with both. "We may not all come home."

"As long as you do, I'll be all right," Rick said plainly, shrugging. "If you're okay, I'm okay, no matter what happens."

He said it so nonchalantly, as if it were that simple for him. For all of his gray actions, he could be starkly black and white. And suddenly, they were back on the train tracks to Terminus, his beard and the collar of the very jacket he currently wore stained with the savagery of another's blood. She'd never felt safer in that moment. So to honor that, she got to the crux of her dilemma.

"I won't be okay if something happens to you."

It was the first selfish thing she'd ever voiced to him, where she couldn't hide behind Carl or Judith or the welfare of the others. This was about _her_. She was terrified of whom she would become if Rick didn't survive. She'd become a monster after Andre and Mike's deaths, yet even then she'd harbored a dollop of resignation that something horrific would happen once the world had gone to shit. Mike and Terry had spiraled deeper and deeper into despair and Andre could only adapt so much. Rick, on the other hand, didn't know the meaning of the word "quit." If she should lose him…

He approached her and grasped her chin with strong fingers. He bent forward until they were nose to nose. The smell of stale coffee on his breath filled her nostrils.

"I'd rend the earth if something happened to _you_ ," he said quietly. He vibrated with that vow, and Michonne cupped his dear face in her hands. The ferocity in his eyes was something she'd never seen in Mike's after the turn. Rick didn't see their demise as an inevitability like Mike had, but rather as an impossibility. And despite how completely unrealistic that was, some of her long-buried anguish abated in the wake of Rick's fortitude, yielding to a renewed faith.

"So we don't _make_ something happen," she said, another callback to their defining conversation after his stint in "lockup." She grazed the pads of her fingers along his bearded cheeks, comforted by gentle roughness.

Rick squeezed her chin and let a thumb brush along her cheek. "We make a home, a family. We make love. We make plans to live, not vague _somethings_ with the off chance we die."

"We go home," she reiterated.

He nodded. " _All_ of us. We go home."

She kissed him with a quiet intensity that she felt double back to her. "You are my home."

His crooked grin gladdened her heart and buoyed her spirit. "That means you'll come back to me."

"As long as there's breath in my body."

He hugged her, causing the katana scabbard to dig into her spine, but she didn't care. She slipped her arms around his neck in return, mindful of the rifle he had strapped behind him.

His lips pressed against her temple. "You are the breath of my body."

Michonne closed her eyes and slid her fingers into his hair. They stood in each other's embrace, syncing breaths and heartbeats, until she had finally corralled her misgivings into fuel she could use for the mission. They would not fail. They _would_ win.

No other option would be acceptable.


	2. With Us

Title: With Us  
Author: bana05  
Rating: T  
Characters/Pairings: Richonne  
Spoilers: Up to 06x13  
Disclaimer: _The Walking Dead_ ain't mine. If it were, there would be nothing but Michonne getting loved on for sixteen episodes straight.  
Summary: In the aftermath of the Saviors' massacre, the Grimes family reassures Michonne.  
Author's notes: I'm sure everyone has seen that Richonne sneak peek for 6x15 by now. This happens before that, but it riffs on what that really lovely moment between them had revealed. Please enjoy and forgive errors!

* * *

Michonne trudged up the porch steps, her katana feeling like a boulder upon her back, as the adrenaline of the past thirty-six hours finally burned away. She was just leaving Glenn and Maggie's house after a gentle debriefing that had more to do with gauging the state of Maggie's welfare than whatever intel Michonne could get about the Saviors who'd captured her and Carol. Glenn wouldn't go more than five feet away from Maggie, which Michonne more than understood. This was not the time to say Maggie shouldn't have been there, because it was all moot now. However, the irony that she would've been safer actually storming the compound instead of being a lookout wasn't quite inescapable.

"Rest," Denise had prescribed, earning a scowl from Maggie and a triumphant head nod from Glenn. Michonne had arched an eyebrow, silently agreeing with the good doctor and Glenn, but she knew better than to pile on Maggie at this time. Instead, Michonne had offered to prepare them both a hot, if uninspired dinner of vegetable soup. They'd declined and she hadn't fought them on it, understanding they just wanted to be alone and decompress from the tension of the bullet they'd all just dodged. After hugging them both and taking her leave, she'd looked across the street and two doors down to where Carol lived. Rick had been there with his own debriefing session with the gray-haired woman and Daryl. Michonne had smirked, knowing they were having a war council, because Rick would do anything to get as far ahead of a threat to his people as he possibly could.

Exhaustion turned the edges of her vision fuzzy and she could feel a headache coming on. It'd taken her three tries to grasp the door handle. Finally, she was in inside. Carl was puttering around in the kitchen with Judith on his hip. Her small head turned first at the sound, then a bright smile bloomed on her face. She squealed and Michonne smiled in return. This baby always knew how to brighten up a day.

"Hey," Carl called, glowering at the pot he was trying to fill with water one-handed. "Where's Dad?"

"With Carol," Michonne said, coming into the kitchen and hugging the baby. "How were things here?"

Carl shrugged, now free to really handle the pot now that he was sans toddler. "Me and Judith mostly read and slept. Enid came over for a bit and we watched a movie."

"Is that all you did?" Michonne asked, eyeing him. Carl scoffed and smirked as the water level rose in the pot.

"Yes, _Mom_ , that's all we did," he reiterated shaking his head. Michonne couldn't help the sharp inhalation she made even as she knew he was teasing her. She only nodded, bowled over by the rawness she felt, and cleared her throat with a wobbly smile.

"I'll see to Judith," she murmured as the baby tried to burrow her head into Michonne's chest, a clear sign she was ready for her crib.

Carl stared at Michonne for a moment. "All right. Spaghetti okay?"

"Spaghetti's perfect. Your dad will be home soon."

Thankfully, Judith wasn't at all fussy this evening, and Michonne had her cleaned, changed, and slumbering in her crib in record time. She placed a hand on the sleeping child's back, watching it rise and fall with the little girl's breathing. It'd been years since someone had called her a mother; she'd thought she'd never hear that term applied to her again. She'd always been careful with her interactions with Rick's children, making sure she didn't overstep whatever invisible boundaries that might be in place. However, it was impossible not to fall in love with the Grimes children, more impossible not to think of them as hers—even before the seismic shift in her relationship with Rick. If anything happened to them…Michonne shook her head. That wasn't a thought she could even remotely entertain.

"Michonne?"

She turned, her hand still on Judith, and grinned softly at a hesitant Carl hovering in the doorway. "Dinner's ready?"

"Yeah, but," he paused and frowned. "I didn't mean to upset you, when I called you mom."

She immediately turned back to Judith, feeling her eyes sting at Carl's words and the soft tone in which he'd wrapped them. "I know it was only a joke," she managed to rasp.

"Well, see, here's the thing: Jesus called you my mom, too, and he wasn't joking."

It was Michonne's turn to scoff. "That Jesus…why would he say that? I mean, it's pretty obvious I'm not your mom, right?" The words felt like glass coming out of her throat, making her eyes water, and she pressed more firmly upon Judith, as if the baby could root her to something.

She heard him enter the room but she didn't turn to look at him. She could tell he had his father's gait, wide strides complemented with purposeful steps. She was proud of him, like a mother would be…whatever that was worth. Everything to her, but she wouldn't make Carl place that same value on their relationship. It worked, whatever he saw them to be, and that'd be good enough for her.

"Actually," Carl said, finally coming to stand beside her, his hands gripping the edges of the crib. "I think it's pretty obvious you are."

Michonne shuddered out a breath and began to blink rapidly. "Carl—"

"I know you didn't carry us inside your belly; and I'll always love Mom and I'll make sure Judith knows about her, too; but I know you carry us where it really counts, which is here," Carl said, and she looked to him pointing at his heart. "Family doesn't have to be blood to be real. We all know that. Like I said…if ever the time came, I'd keep you from turning, just like I did Mom, because you're my mom, too, and I love you."

Michonne's free hand came to her eyes to hide the tears that had spilled from them. This kid…this _kid_. It didn't matter his voice had dropped several octaves with the same alarming speed that had had him shooting up like a weed, he was still the same boy who risked his life to make a run on his little sister's behalf. She'd felt her re-frozen heart begin to thaw again when he'd snarled, "It's the only one left!" about the last Grimes family photo in existence, had seen the determination and the valor of his spirit, and the seed of her love for him had been planted. Now it was a mighty oak, never to be cut down.

Her hand trembled as she wiped away her tears, and she looked over at him with a soft smile. "I love you, Carl Grimes. I loved you before I even really liked your father. What I feel for you is independent of what I feel for him—you and Judy Bug."

Carl nodded, his face complacent even as his shoulders relaxed slightly. "So would it be okay if I called you Mom sometimes?"

"More than," Michonne replied hoarsely, feeling tears well up again. "But just so you know: once you officially call me that, that's it. No takebacks. You can't decide that if I discipline you or make you do something you don't like or want to do that I'm not your real mom. That would devastate me."

"I'd never do that," Carl insisted, and Michonne snorted.

"Carl Grimes, you can throw an epic tantrum and we both know it."

He grinned and shrugged. "True, but if you're ever on the receiving end of it then that would sort of make it _really_ official, right?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "I will _never_ be on the receiving end of that. Don't get _that_ twisted!"

He laughed, his blue eye bright in a way that made her heart wobble. It'd been tinged with darkness for so long, well before he'd lost his other eye. That she had a hand in its current sparkle made up for the terror that the past twenty-four hours had brought.

"Okay…Mom…"

She nodded, her breath shuddering out as grief and joy combined into a quiet sob. Carl was there, wrapping her in his arms, and she held this boy who had become so dear tightly to her. She pressed a long kiss to his temple, grateful he bore her show of affection. He even squeezed her in return.

"You would've been an awesome big brother to Andre," she said. "He would've adored you."

"Yeah," Carl replied, his own voice gruff. "I think I would've adored him too."

Dinner was quiet but pleasant, the spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce hitting the spot. She washed the dishes, shooing Carl off to bed with an apple since he'd cooked, and made a plate for Rick before going upstairs with an armful of apples herself. She still wanted her spearmint and baking soda toothpaste one day, but the crisp fruit would provide their dental hygiene for now.

The shower was lukewarm as to conserve energy and hot water, but she really could use a soak. Blood and grime spun down the drain, and Michonne sighed heavily at the sight. They'd become guns for hire to put food in their bellies, and maybe it was a good thing she still felt a smidge of guilt for the massacre they'd just committed. Granted, it wasn't enough for her to have regret for what she'd done, but better to live with that remorse than to starve without it.

Sighing again, Michonne stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her damp body before leaving the bathroom to go into her room.

Rick was in the bed already, his hair damp from the shower he must've taken in his own room, the thin, white T-shirt he wore brandishing damp spots from places where his skin hadn't fully dried yet, and his pajama bottoms riding low on his hips. He was snoring away, his arms curled around the pillow he used, and Michonne muffled her giggle at the adorableness of it all.

She crossed the room to close the door, making sure to be as quiet as possible. However, when she turned back to the bed, electric blue eyes stared back at her.

"Hey."

"Did you eat?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "Carol had a leftover casserole so I ate there. I saw the spaghetti. I'll probably polish that off later too."

"Or Carl," Michonne said, a corner of her mouth ticking up.

"Yeah," he said, chuckling. "More than likely Carl." He stretched and burrowed deeper into the bedding, his eyes falling shut. "Between the two of us, it's a wonder you and Judy have anything to eat."

"No matter how greedy you get, you'll never let us go without," Michonne said confidently, tugging up the towel around her body.

"Yeah," he agreed again, his eyes peeling open, bloodshot yet focused, to regard her. He pressed his cheek into the pillow and inhaled deeply. "I'm so glad it wasn't you."

Nodding, understanding he meant the brief kidnapping they'd all just endured, Michonne approached him and cupped his jaw in her hand. He closed his eyes, leaning his face into her hold. "They made it back. Our family is resilient."

He nodded, scooting closer to her to bury his face into her neck and sling his arm over her belly. "I'm still glad it wasn't you."

Michonne remained silent as she massaged the back of Rick's neck. She would not give him platitudes or false promises, because their relationship demanded too much honesty and truth for that. It could've been her. Hell, it _had_ been her before—and once under Rick's own orders until he'd changed his mind. She could've died a thousand times before now, but the universe had decided to spare her for some reason. Her grandmother would always say tomorrow wasn't promised, and that'd been before the end of the world. Yet she'd been through her own personal hell, losing her lover and her son; however, she'd been able to gain another of each with a bonus daughter to boot. She would focus on what she had and celebrate it, cherish it, and guard it with her life.

"Stay with me," he whispered into her shoulder, nosing her skin amid her thick locs.

"As long as I'm able," she vowed, and she frowned when he chuckled.

"While I'm really happy to hear that, I mean tonight," he said, kissing her jaw, then her cheek, nose, lips. "And tomorrow night…and the night after that…and every night until there are no more nights to be had…"

Every pause was a kiss, to her collarbone, to her forehead, to the curve of her ear, to her chest. She was intoxicated by Rick's mouth upon her body.

"That's why you came into my room lookin' like a lost puppy?" Michonne teased, giggling when his wet tongue slipped into her cleavage.

He rested his chin gently atop her sternum and grinned. "I was tryin' to catch you before you changed, see if I could convince you to move in with me. But I'm tired and the bed smelled like you and now here we are."

He tongued her left breast right above her heartbeat, and Michonne slid her fingers through his hair. "So, you'd like to stay in here instead?"

Rick shrugged and kissed the inside of her forearm. "If you're partial to this room, I can move in with you…" He grinned and blushed a little. "I just wanna hold you and sleep with you and wake up with you. Don't care where, just as long as I'm with you."

Emotion swelled within her chest, and she drew his head up her body so she could kiss his lips. Rick came willingly, devouring her almost immediately as his hands smoothed down her flesh. His mouth tasted of apple, and her tongue tried to get all of the flavors from him that she could. Rick managed to undo the towel's tie underneath her left armpit, and soon his callused palms were gliding along her bare skin. Michonne shuddered, breasts peaking and nether regions moistening. It seemed Rick's weariness was no match for his arousal when it came to her.

"We don't—"

He pressed a tender kiss to her lips. "I do." He drew the towel away and tossed it to the end of the bed. "I gotta cherish you. I gotta show you how much I adore you."

Michonne looked up at the ceiling as his lips traveled down her body. She was already trembling from his ministrations, his words, and even the echo of Carl's declaration if she were honest. She felt heady over the domesticity of everything, a boon she'd never thought she'd regained after she'd lost her first family. She was completely overcome, everything hitting her the moment Rick placed a kiss above her womb, and she burst into tears.

Of course, Rick popped up in alarm, his hands now cradling her damp face, his eyes fierce with the need to vanquish whatever caused her distress. Michonne shook her head, tangling her fingers through his on her cheeks and kissing the heels of his hands.

"Darlin'?" Rick began, kissing her forehead, the bridge of her nose. "Did I do somethin'? Am I comin' on too strong—?"

Michonne shook her head and clutched him to her, burying her face into his neck. He was being exactly what she required: strong, firm, determined, _present_. He anticipated her needs and made sure she had whatever was necessary to not only survive, but also thrive. He was so different from whom Mike had become post-apocalypse, and she mourned Mike even as she rejoiced Rick. Too many complex feelings roiled within her, lingering anger and grief and even, now that she felt safe enough to admit it, relief Mike and Andre were no longer here. She couldn't unpack that now, though. She was flayed open enough.

Rick murmured soothing words and adjusted them both so that he bore her weight instead of the other way around. His hands smoothed along her bare body, his arousal she'd felt between her thighs softening amid her need for comfort. She suddenly chuckled, her throat still a little thick and raw, and Rick pulled back to look at her.

"What?"

"I effectively killed the mood."

He quirked a smile at her, brushing away moisture from her cheeks with his knuckles. "A little. But I think you needed this more, and I'm happy to oblige."

She allowed her thumb to smooth over his bearded cheek, her heart fluttering at the way he closed his eyes to savor the caress. "Carl called me Mom."

His eyes opened and were filled with so much pleasure and joy that she almost started crying again. "He did?"

"You're okay with that?" Michonne asked, needing verbal confirmation. As well as they could communicate silently, some things required explicit statement. "I didn't ask him to—"

"Way I figure it, you've been mothering him since the prison," Rick said plainly. "You look after my boy as if he were your own flesh and blood. Judy too. You're their mama. The DNA of a family is made up by the love, not the blood."

"That's basically what Carl said," she revealed.

"He's right," Rick said, kissing Michonne's forehead. "Boy's got a good head on his shoulders. We lucked out with him."

"I lucked out with all of you," Michonne replied, brushing her nose against Rick's. "Thank you for giving me a family again."

He smiled at her so tenderly that Michonne hid her eyes into his cheek, her spirit so light she feared she could float away. He snickered, pulling her closer and tangling his pajama-clad leg with one of her bare ones. "Yeah, you're stuck with us," Rick warned. "We ain't lettin' you go without a fight."

She came out of hiding and kissed him languidly, vibrating with the wealth of feelings she held for him.

"Good."


	3. With Him

Title: With Him  
Author: bana05  
Rating: T  
Characters/Pairings: Richonne  
Spoilers: Up to 6x15  
Disclaimer: _The Walking Dead_ ain't mine. If it were, there would be nothing but Michonne getting loved on for sixteen episodes straight.  
Summary: Michonne hadn't chatted with Mike in a while, which was a good thing, right?  
Author's Notes: Although season six is in the books, it isn't yet for the purposes of this installment. This interlude happens in 6x15 but before anyone dies, during one of the mornings in the montage that started the episode. As always, please forgive any errors and enjoy!

* * *

It was the hand on her cheek that roused Michonne from her deep sleep, even as her body felt heavy from the weariness of the previous day. She blinked blearily, the room still dark save for the brilliant moonlight entering through the window, yet she met a pair of brown eyes so bright she squinted in its wake.

"Hey, Mick," he said, his smile Colgate ready, a far cry from when she'd last seen him.

"Mike?" she whispered, her heart thundering in her chest. She didn't reach out to touch him, Rick's soft snores and strong arms still about her. She knew her fingers would simply pass through air, anyway. That didn't mean she didn't want to feel his face, the scratch of his goatee, the warmth of his lips that she still missed.

"That's my name. You can wear it out all night long," he said with a wink.

Michonne snorted quietly and rolled her eyes, remembering that was the first thing he'd said to her when a mutual had introduced them at one of the mutual's art showings. Attraction had been there to be sure, but Mike's forced arrogance had left much more to be desired. She'd kept a wide berth for the rest of the night, knowing too well how a Black man who had looks and potential could tend to believe all women were at their disposal, and that was because they usually were. But then Mike had caught her staring at one of the paintings on exhibit, a ruddy abstract she simply couldn't understand, and his interpretation had been so engagingly profound that they'd ended up talking right in front of that art until the gallery had been ready to close hours later.

He'd been getting a PhD in English from Emory; she'd just gotten her fancy law degree from Howard. He'd been beautiful, interested in her thoughts and opinions, and he hadn't minded she'd rooted for Washington while he'd been a tried and true Dirty Bird. Thankfully, the teams hadn't played each other enough where the relationship could be tested, but she'd never hesitated to pull out the Ring Check trump card when Mike got too big for his football britches.

Her parents hadn't liked him, wondering what he was going to do with a PhD in such a vague field, not liking their daughter would have to be the breadwinner while he wrote poetry no one cared about outside of open mic nights. But he'd leave poems for her in her case files, in the lunches he'd pack for her, in the voicemails he'd leave when she had to work late nights at the office.

"You haven't talked to me in a while," Mike whispered, pulling her from her thoughts, his thumb brushing the swell of her cheek. "I'm real glad about that."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you now? That why you're suddenly corporeal and not just a voice in my head?"

"Dunno about the corporeal part, but, maybe? Yeah," he said with a nod. "Means you're moving on. Means you're finding happiness again. Means you're doing what we couldn't…that I didn't destroy that part of you irreparably."

Michonne pursed her lips and closed her eyes against his words. "I figured out the answer."

"Yes," Mike agreed. "Andrea helped you. Carl helped you. Rick."

She nodded. "You. _Him_."

Mike drifted the knuckles of his pristine hand on her cheek. She wished she could feel its warmth, its sturdiness. That hand had withstood her bone-crushing grip as she'd brought their child into the world. He'd joke about how two midnight people could make a sun-bright baby even though he'd been the one to contribute that particular throwback gene. Andre had looked like Mike's great grandfather, who'd been the result of a white banker in Dry Branch, Georgia having relations with his young Black housekeeper at the turn of the previous century. Andre _ha_ _d_ been the most beautiful baby, smiling as soon as Mike had placed him in her arms.

"Rick's good for you, Mick," he said, his lips curling upward, and Michonne rolled her eyes again.

"Even dead you're cornier than Kansas," she teased.

"Hey, Mick and Mike's now Mick and Rick," Mike said cheerily. "I was a poet, after all."

"But ain't nobody know it," she cracked, muffling her giggle with her pillow when he scowled playfully at her.

"You did," Mike reminded her, arching an eyebrow, but he grinned. "Then again, you're certainly not nobody."

She squeezed Rick's forearm since she couldn't touch Mike. "You were everything to me."

"And you were everything to me, you and Andre," Mike said, his eyes suddenly glistening. "I didn't deal with the loss of you very well."

Michonne felt a spike of rage that she purged harshly through her nose on a breath. "We weren't lost."

"Yeah, you were," Mike said evenly, taking her anger in stride. "I'd lost you and I knew it, but you stubbornly held us together. You were good for that, Mick, making ways out of no way. That's what drew me to you."

"You who could find the meaning in anything, make parallels and points out of the most disparate concepts," Michonne reminded him skeptically.

"Writing a poem about how much I love you does jack when the world falls apart," Mike said flatly.

"It kept me going," Michonne revealed to him. "Why do you think I asked you to make up something before we went to sleep at camp?"

Sighing, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead for a long moment. "I'd seen my demise, Michonne, and our son's. I'd never seen yours."

Michonne hissed in a sharp breath. "Michael."

"Our boy wasn't made for this world, and I couldn't figure out how to make him be. I didn't want this for him, you know that," Mike said, his forehead now pressed against hers. "I wanted him safe, and you, but I couldn't figure out how to make that so. I couldn't see a way out. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for me; and while you were trying to carve out of that tunnel with that sword of yours, I was already giving Andre's eulogy in my head." He shuddered out a breath and Michonne imagined she could feel it against her mouth. It didn't reek of reefer anymore. "His death is on me."

"No." Michonne knew now survival was as much about luck as it was about guile, and the more one had of both, the better one's chances. And really, hadn't it always been that way?

Mike simply looked at her for a long while. "I was high."

"Even if you weren't, nobody could've survived what had happened, not even me," Michonne finally admitted, and she reeled from the confession. "I saw that camp, Michael. I saw the devastation in your eyes, that you had to watch…" She could still see, plain as day, a camp completely overrun with people dead or about to be. Terry had found her first, his face haggard and bloodied as he led her to an abandoned truck where Mike and Andre had hidden. Her relief had morphed into rageful grief at the sight of Mike sobbing over their son who'd already turned, his tiny body jerking, his mouth snapping and snarling underneath Mike's bloody hand.

It'd been the same hand she'd almost broken over three years ago.

It hadn't mattered, though, because he'd already been bitten trying to save a son who'd already been dead. Terry had told her what had happened as the light of the living faded from his eyes, that one of the new refugees had been passing out weed and he and Mike had taken some while Andre napped in their tent, had planned to share some with her when she'd returned because they'd all been too tight for too long and they'd just needed to _relax_. But then the alarm had sounded, a horde had arrived, and they'd been a split-second too late in realizing it wasn't all just a trippy nightmare.

"We were running to the gates, Andre in my arms. He was scratched when one of them grabbed his shirt," Mike had picked up the recitation, his own eyes going dull as perspiration dotted his ashen face. "I punched it to free its grip and another's mouth snapped down on my arm." He'd laughed humorlessly. "Then Terry got bit trying to help me loose. Ain't that a bitch?"

At the time, Michonne couldn't process this because all she'd seen was her writhing undead baby in his dying father's arms. She'd seen their failure, because surely it'd been hers as much as Mike's and Terry's. If they hadn't been high…if they'd gotten as good with a sword or any weapon as she'd gotten…if they'd had enough faith for them all so she wouldn't have had to shoulder it by herself…

If the world hadn't gone to shit and dragged Mike down with it, then she wouldn't have had to sink her katana through their son's skull.

"I'm glad you have another chance at happiness and love with a man better equipped to handle this new world than I was."

Michonne blinked and tears streaked down her face. "Mike…"

"He is, and that's the simple truth of it," Mike said with a firm nod. "I ain't mad at the brotha for that. I'm glad. As hard as you held it down for us, you need someone who can hold it down just as hard for you."

"Am I just having you say that to make me feel less guilty?"

"You shouldn't feel guilty about love, Mick," Mike said. "You loved me. I let you down in the worst possible way. You hated me."

"I missed you. I loved you," Michonne whispered. "I always will."

Mike's smile was wistful and he kissed her forehead again. "Be happy, Mick. You made it out that tunnel. Enjoy this light."

"You got me through it," she whispered. "You protected me, you and Terry, and I couldn't see that until recently."

"Light shines and reveals. In the aspect of your eyes and smile I see a future that begins with you. Bright and hopeful and blessed to be bathed in yours. Though I do not deserve your offering, I treasure it always."

Michonne hiccoughed a sob hearing Mike recite a line of a poem he'd written when he'd learned of her pregnancy.

"I'm just glad I could do for you what I couldn't do for our boy," Mike whispered. "I did the best I could, even though it wasn't enough, and I'm sorry for it. I really am, Michonne."

He'd turned while he'd been in the middle of that refrain and she'd hacked off his jaw. Now, she kissed him quiet. Air. Nothingness.

Rick's arm tightened around her middle just before his lips found the curve of her shoulder. She looked over that shoulder to see bloodshot blue eyes gazing back at her.

"I woke you," she stated. "I'm sorry."

Michonne didn't ask if he'd heard because it was obvious he had.

"Mike's the dead boyfriend," he conjectured, his tone neutral, understanding, and she nodded. He nodded back. "Did y'all have a good talk?"

She nodded again and smiled softly. "He says he's glad I'm happy."

"That's all I want you to be," Rick drawled into her neck, sleep already reclaiming him. "Safe and happy for as long as you draw breath. And you're drawin' it for a long time if I have anything to say about it."

Michonne tangled her fingers with his hand that cradled her womb. Her belly fluttered like the loose ends that were still flapping in the wind over their deal with Hilltop and the lingering Saviors that remained. Yet here in this bed with him, Michonne resolved to focus only on their light and silently vowed to protect it with her life.


End file.
